Bloodshot
by Lazerwolf314
Summary: Follows Poison Pill. The door swings open to bloodshot eyes and a ravaged expression. A maelstrom of emotion rush past. And neither can speak.
1. Chapter 1

The door swings open to bloodshot eyes and a ravaged expression. A maelstrom of emotion rushes past the figure as he sways and she can almost swear she feels it as it flies by.

She does feel the cold that emanates from his rain soaked form. It chills.

Neither speaks, him unable, her unwilling.

Something inside her snaps; be it fear or resolve or compassion, she knows not. All she knows is that she is pulling the bewildered man inside her apartment, shutting the door behind him and leading him like a small child to the couch.

(She knows him, knows what will come after this lostness. Once it has past, the rage and anger and pain will strike and he will retreat, just as he does on his day devoted solely to the dead. He will lash and hiss and bite at any hand that approaches, no matter the intent. He will snarl like a beast in a cage, because his heart is strong and radiant and never deserves to be stepped on.

This heart does not know what to do with a stepped on heart, so it turns primal in a defense, where it will do its best to rebuild shattered walls even as they crumble around it.

Part of her fears the rage that is to come, the deep pit of blackness that will swallow him for a time. It burns and hurts her on the inside as well, to see her friend, her comfort, her shoulder, to be this way.

But the rest of her is glad. Because if there is no rage, there will only be a piece of tape on oozing wounds that cannot heal until the bile is released.)

She sits him down, throwing a blanket around his almost but not quite trembling shoulders and tucking it firmly around his body. Inside, she is fighting against the instinct to hug, to make some sort of contact, but she knows him. Knows she cannot help until the truth comes out and the anger bubbles free.

Instead, she gets hot chocolate for both of them, because it's the middle of the night and coffee will do no good for either. And she waits.

He must be the first to speak or speak he will never do.

She waits. Sips patiently at her steaming mug and watching him like a hawk until he takes that first mouthful. Hiding a smile behind her mug as she sees the warmth take affect, she sits before him on the coffee table, knees not quite touching.

(She knows that when the time arises, she will be bitten the most painfully by the darkness that will ooze. She will withstand the venom, however, just as he withstood her fire the handful of times it was she who exploded. It will hurt both of them.

Just as it will help both as well.)

Slowly, the shivering dwindles along with the contents of their mugs. Gently, she takes the ceramic from his tensed fingers, sets it aside, and takes his hands.

Finally, he meets her gaze and the response in her gut is instantaneous when she spots the water pooling in his eyes. She refuses to show any outwardly reaction though.

Wait.

"Gail cheated on me."

It's a statement. It's a plea. It's a broken croak from a kicked heart.

The instinctive denial rises in her throat.

It is quickly and effectively crushed by the way his jaw clenches and his lower lip trembles as the reality once again strikes home. His head bows and rests on the their joined hands.

And that's when he begins to cry.

She can feel the warm tears as they run over their fingers and palms, and her own slip down her cheeks, unbidden, to splash on the floor. As she grieves with him, it occurs to her that she is also crying for herself, what she has lost as well as what she could have lost earlier that very day.

In all honesty, she is truly surprised at how he has maintained this far, even if it doesn't appear so. Because this man, this soldier, loves unconditionally, even when it has the potential to hurt.

(What she doesn't know, is that part of that love for ice has died, scorched away by flames, a minute fissure in that supposed bond. And that fissure helps now to ease the pain of the surprise stab.)

He cries silently, body tense and valiant in order to contain the sobs, and she cries with him, for a long time. When he stops, it's sudden and he straightens to stare at her with bloodshot and dazed eyes.

"Andy," he whispers, "I don't know what to do."

She has to force herself to breath and she summons courage from deep inside. "You move forward. Don't look back. Grieve. Do what you have to. But don't hide away." She takes another breath before finishing. "Nick, I'm right here and I won't let you hide."

This is her vow to him, her steadfast promise, the strongest thing she can offer.

He searches her face, finds that fire that lurks, and nods once.

A silence stretches between them. Then a flicker of the boyishness she has come to adore appears and he asks slyly, "What kind of ice cream do you have?"

All she can do is giggle at the question as she swipes first at her own eyes, clearing away the cooling tear tracks, and then thumbs away his as well. The barest hint of a smile appears then, but its missed as she stands and heads to her freezer.

It doesn't fade, even as the swirl of emotion still burbling fights for control.

So they eat ice cream until they both feel a bit sick and watch late night television. There are no laughs tonight, but that's okay. Eventually, Andy sees the exhaustion creeping in and leads Nick gently but firmly to her bed, despite his halfhearted and tired refusals.

She makes him get in, pulls the covers up to his chest and tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she is sleeping on the couch.

It's a testament to how tired he is that he doesn't even put up the token argument. Instead he mumbles something unintelligible that Andy takes as a thank you, and slips beneath the waves of slumber.

She slides from the room with one last glance at his sleeping form cast in shadows, before shutting the door lightly behind her. Sighing deeply, she rests her head against the wood for a brief moment, eyes shut tight, as she does her best to reorganize her thoughts.

Then she turns and walks away, back to the brightly lit living room where she cleans a up as best she can before turning out all but the dim kitchen lights and settling onto her couch with a book. Sadness coats her movements, but she ignores it as best she can. She opens the pages, but the words blur and all she can think of is the blonde who managed to dent something beautiful.

There are some things that will have to be dealt with in the morning.

The book is quickly set aside when her eyelids begin to droop, and, on a bolt of sleep deprived inspiration, she rises. Heads back to her bedroom and slips inside silently. Stretches out on the far side of the bed, several feet of space between her and the soldier. There she falls asleep, on top of the covers, still dressed, but ready to defend.

She tumbles into sleep with the tiniest of smiles on her face.

* * *

_This started as a small drabble. It ran from me._

_It's still running, so I have no idea what'll become of it._

_My reward for finishing this was a cupcake._

_I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed my cupcake._


	2. Chapter 2

Dreams are tiny tendrils of growing ivy. Scattering and random, fleeting and dipping, they snag as they grow on a trembling conscious. They move about the sleepers mind like minnows in a pond, flickering silver as they slip from one scene to the next.

Each time, they are desperately shrugged off, the mind unwilling to accept the pictures they show. Memories, tinged with ice and silver, dance.

(Why is it always the memories? Always and every time, when he sleeps after something crushing has stomped on his warrior heart or battered soul, it is always then that the memories surge the hardest. Clear and sparkling, a movie of cruel proportions running on a loop until he steps out of sleep.

Never has he been able to duck them.

Usually, its pictures of Afghanistan. Dust coloured film segments of his platoon, joking in barracks, serious on patrol. Bleeding in the dirt and grime. Each face a friend. Each face a twisted mask of pain as some fought for life and other succumbed to the sweet kiss of death. Each and every single face burned into his brain like the facets of some exquisite jewel.

The only problem is, is this jewel is run through with flaws and blemishes. No matter how much polishing and buffing and cleaning and scraping will remove the cracks.)

Then they begin to prod, teasing and poking. Becoming more and more vicious in their attacks. It becomes harder to duck them, to find the way back to a clean and restful slumber.

Then they attack, greedily forcing themselves into a myriad of snapshots, one after another until the sleeper can only sit back and absorb. Brow beaten into submission, the pictures (torturous, painful, angry) flash by in a dizzying display.

(But now, now after the events of yesterday, it's the pictures and movies and tastes and sounds and feelings of Gail Peck. Ice Queen. Daughter of the police force itself. And they start at the beginning.

Meeting, joking, laughing. Growing closer, crying, learning. Falling in love, understanding, accepting.

And then running.

And fighting.

And coming back with bruises that she would ignore because she could and because she liked him better without flaws. And everything spins after this; round and round and round we go, where he will stop, we'll never quite know.)

The only outward reaction to this scattering of punches is the sleeper will twitch each time a particularly hurtful image surfaces in his slumbering conscious.

It is these small twitches, nearly minute in effect, that wakes her. Even as they force her away from the dreaming state, they continue, the man unaware of what his limbs were doing.

She surfaces slowly, moving through golden molasses of peaceful dreams to blink and see the ceiling stare back at her. Dust motes dance visibly in the air, lit by the beams of the dawning sun through the half opened blinds. Frowning, she cocks her head, hair sticking irritably to her rumbled pillow, and studies the specks of dust as they float in mocking circles. She'll have to clean and that's always a not so much fun time.

Focusing in on one of them, she follows its trail with her eyes, body still heavy with the remnants of sleep. It slowly drifts closer and closer, until it vanishes from view when it lights on her nose and her eyes cross. Snorting softly, she blinks and smirks at herself.

At this moment, the soldier twitches again and, startled, Andy rolls her head to the side, instantly tensing. She breathes out slowly, easing the tension from her muscles. Thankfully, she hasn't woken him. Today, he deserves all the sleep he can get. But that doesn't stop the twisted expression on his face from registering.

He is curled in a ball on his side, facing the center of the bed, knees drawn to his chest and arms stretched before him. He appears lost. He appears wounded.

Nick is lost and wounded.

Despite her earlier promises to herself to allow him the most sleep possible, she levers herself into a sitting position and peers down at him. She wants nothing more than to comfort him and at that moment, hopes that what she is about to do will provide only peace and not wakefulness.

Scootching on her butt to get closer, she finds herself in the center of her own bed on uncertain terms. Summoning the courage she knows resides in the bottom of her heart, she leans down and presses her lips lightly to Nick's temple and begins to mumble words. Meaningless words, senseless words, all jumbled together and forced into air in a quiet and soft voice.

When the twitches and spadoric flinches grow fewer and fewer, she withdraws and runs a gentle hand across his brow. "Sleep, okay. Just rest," she tells him and moves away. It hurts her heart when he unconsciously tries to follow, shifting forward a few inches in an attempt to follow the retreating warmth. She hesitates, knowing she's going to have to leave the room soon, but he eventually settles again and this time with a much slacker expression.

Sliding from her bed, she pads on silent feet to the door and carefully slips out. She walks down the hall on the balls of her feet.

(Habit, picked up after several long months of UC. If you walk quietly, you are less likely to draw unwanted attention. So they taught themselves, well Nick taught Andy, how to run even with boots on in the stealthiest way possible. The habit was picked up and built upon, until they both mastered how to sneak in shadows with little effort. Until it became second nature to practice on the other, see how close they could come before being noticed.

If one was never noticed until it was too late, loser had to buy the ice cream supply.)

A slight sound catches her attention and she stills, slowly scanning the living room and kitchen from her position, hidden carefully in the mouth of the hallway. The sound fades and seconds later swells again and that is when she places it as the vibrate of a cell phone on counter top.

She spots the object on the island and goes to it, a confused expression crossing her face when she recognizes it as Nick's and not hers. Exactly when had that gotten there? Eventually, she shrugs, because as long as it's not bothering her sleeping company, it doesn't really matter where it came from.

Peeking at the display, she can't help the way her lips draw back in a semblance of a snarl. She lets the phone ring as the name _Gail _flashes across the screen before it goes black. Barely resisting to hurl the offending object at a wall, she manages to reign in her surprise when the screen once again alights.

_43 missed text messages_

_9 missed calls_

_8 voicemail messages_

Oh, how Andy wants to delete them all, but she knows its not her place, not even after she has somehow found herself in the role of guardian and, oddly, breakup buddy.

Because, that's what's happened, isn't it?

Instead of calling the blonde and spewing all the venomous and hateful words that have spawned in her throat, Andy swallows them away and clicks the phone onto silent.

Leaves it with one final glare as it lights up again.

(She would never have guessed, in a million years, that Gail would be the one playing the desperate game of phone tag. The woman had always seemed so aloof, above all the petty grievances of the _mere mortals _and would constantly have the front, because that's what it was, that love and all that didn't truly matter.

Looks like Andy's going to have to learn a new skill called better judgment.)

Glancing quickly at the oven clock, she grimaces at the time. Still early morning, but too late to be on time. Not that she was planning on going to go to work today. So, she hunts up her cell phone from its nest in the depths of her couch and calls the desk sergeant.

Explains to him that they must have caught the same flu or come down with food poisoning, adding the perfect amount of rasp and weariness to her voice. The desk sergeant, the kindly man who is nearing retirement and always offers her thin mints on her way out for patrol, accepts the story with true sympathy and well wishes. For a brief flicker, she feels bad for lying, but its quickly smashed to bits as she remembers the lost eyes she found in her doorway yesterday.

Thanking the desk sergeant, she hangs up and buries her head in her hands. In this small sliver of early morning, she takes time to pick up her still battered pieces and forces them back together, hoping the glue will hold for a few days.

She breaths.

Then she gets to her feet and sets about getting food. Now is not the time to think of the day ahead, but to think about her, and so she does.

Close down unnecessary functions.

Breath.

Keep breathing.

Time to get your chin up.

* * *

_I still have no idea where I'm going with this, but I'm in love with it and how I'm writing it and the style and everything, so basically I'm seeing where it takes me._

_Please, I would love any and all opinions on this._


	3. Chapter 3

Hands grasp tight to stainless steel, knuckles going white and arms trembling minutely at the tight strain contained within the limbs. With her head bowed, trails and tails of loose hair that had previously escaped a limp ponytail, she wavers back and forth on still terror washed limbs. The cool spray of cascading water settles on hands, cooling them and coating until beads begin to form.

They create a steady heartbeat that shimmered just above the rush of running water.

Control.

(Its hard for her. Hard to put on a mask when all she needs is to let out everything inside her. It's what she does. Let's out the bile inside as quick as possible before it burns away control.

Like it is now.

She could have died yesterday. Anthrax. Chemical warfare. Little biological enemies eating her apart from the inside. At least she hadn't been alone in it. Although, had it been her choice, she wouldn't have chosen Marlo.

Oddly, the presence of the other woman, an opposite of many accounts, had actually helped with the panic.

But she hadn't had time to process, to grieve, to accept because her best friend had appeared with his own wounds and her instinct to protect him over herself had kicked in.

So yes, this is hard. Because the bile has been burning for twenty-four hours longer than it should have.)

Fight for it McNally.

"What are you doing?" a sleep strained voice murmurs from behind her and the glue crumbles. Hissing in surprise, she whirls, one hand passing through the now icy stream of water, and stares at a bleary eyed Nick as he leans against the counter, one hand scratching absently at the back of his head. He pauses when he sees her, fully, eyes wide and pupils huge, hands tensed and posture weary and halts.

"Nothing," she replies, voice steady even as she writhes.

He is silent.

_Liar_, echoes in his eyes. Those big eyes, innocent in the still semi emptiness following dreams (even if they were mostly the mares of the night darkness), stare at her, taking in more than she wants him to see.

Damn the two of them and this symbiotic back and forth.

(Not so bad of a thing when it all came down to it. They could read each other without words, body language a dead give away when it counted. Especially in situations when words could only lead down pathways of destruction.

But on the other hand, now, when she was desperate to hide her scars because she had this undeniable instinct to protect him first, even before her, he could see that she was trying to hide… something.

Push.

Pull.

Clairvoyance, right there.)

"Fine," she snaps. "I'm staring at the sink. Happy?"

She regrets the harshness of her tone (born and bread of the feeling of white powder blasted across her skin, sticking and sparkling, a reminder of everything that could happen in a split second) and instantly drops her gaze to the floor. The water on her hands slowly drips away, tik tik tiking at her feet.

He continues to hold his tongue.

Puppy dog eyes hide the sadness. Not very well.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, dragging a wet hand across her brow. She flinches at the clamminess and shakes like a dog to disperse of the feeling. It lingers. "I really have no idea."

The silence remains booming, but for the sounds of the still running sink. Seeking a distraction, she reaches over to shut it off (damn those trembling digits as they fumble for the handle, damn them right to hell and back, because the rest of her is sturdy as a rock. They always say eyes are the windows to the soul, but really, hands give away a lot more than you think) and jolts when there is suddenly a steady and warm hand engulfing hers.

Nick is behind her, radiating warmth, breath tickling the back of her neck.

Waiting.

But he gets to the finish line before she can even start, and sighs, head dropping to rest against hers.

"You could have died yesterday," he murmurs and he can feel her tremble.

(This has happened before, her on the edge, him trying to put her back together. Halfway through Dakota, a rival gang against their mark had lashed out in retaliation for a previous offense and Andy had been caught in the middle. It was only a couple of hours before the crew Nick was working for found her, bruised and shaking but alive.

Nick had wanted to pull out of the op right then and there, but it had been Andy that had convinced him otherwise.

They knew the risk was great. They knew something bad could happen at any moment. But that was all part of the job. Right?

So they had gone home.

Home sweet cover apartment.

And she had tried to hold it all in, because they were UC and they had to be able to watch each others backs, but he had seen just as he was now and told her to let it out.

So she did.

And they finished the op.

She only managed to stand because of him, the heart, the beast, the wolf.)

"I could die every day," she mutters halfheartedly. "But yeah, I could've died yesterday."

There.

It's finally out there.

Where it needs to be.

Nick simply pulls her into a semi-bear hug and lets her break apart and glue herself back together.

When they separate, Andy offers a red eyed, quavering smile but there are no tears any more. Nick smiles slightly back, nodding when he takes in the lack of tremors.

"So!" he claps his hands and this time, she doesn't jump.

Point in the first.

"What are we doing today?" he asks, at the same time the screen of his phone lights up in the corner of his eye. He turns to face it and sees the half lurch Andy makes, as if to snatch it up before he can get it.

Like before.

Push.

Pull.

Protect the other, not the self.

Twisted relationship this is.

Not that they'll ever change it.

"I'm thinking… lots of drinking," Andy quips, facing sparkling, eyes still darting between him and the phone on the counter.

"Hm. Sounds like a plan," Nick shoots back as he reaches for the phone. He glances briefly at the display and Andy sees his face twist into a dark and broken expression, smoothing away seconds later. But it was there.

(And there it is, the dark, angry inside beast that lurks just bellow the surface growing stronger and stronger as time goes by. He hates that beast inside, the rage that manifested and exploded after all those long months in the sands and the dirt and the war.

War breeds only war.

The internal type of war in the most part.

The beast can't handle betrayal, wants nothing more than blood under its claws and warm and wet in its throat. The urge is nearly overwhelming, and in that state, terrifying. But he can't stop the twisted dreams from dancing to life before his eyes; he can almost feel them.

The man has to handle betrayal.

He doesn't want to think of the alternative.

Part of him thinks that sometimes the only reason he can still stand is because of Andy McNally, the lion, the girl, the warrior.)

Idly, Nick stares at the phone, checks the numbers of texts and calls and voicemails that peer back at him accusingly. He carefully places it back from where he picked it up.

Control.

Andy watches him uncertainly.

"So." He claps his hands together as if in glee. "Drinking?" he enquires.

A small giggle slips from Andy's lips and she pulls him into a hug, burying her face into his shoulder. A small sigh escapes Nick's throat as he once again rests his head on top of hers. They fit like puzzle pieces.

It's nice.

* * *

_For those of you following the Rookies Choice Awards, I am so sorry for the wait in the announcement of the winners. I'm working at it whenever I get away from work, which is never. I am sorry._

_Reviews absolutely make my world go round._


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